


Loss Ficlet: Words

by missclairebelle



Series: Loss (Ficlets) [17]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 14:16:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14451045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missclairebelle/pseuds/missclairebelle
Summary: Jamie is frustrated by a big work project, Claire struggles not to take his attitude personally, and she spends a night out without him in the dress she wore on their first date.





	Loss Ficlet: Words

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: NSFW. Not the whole thing, but roughly the last one third.  If you don’t want to read that kind of thing, you can either figure out where to stop or drop me a message. I’m happy to send an edited version. ;)
> 
>  ****Much love to[@kkruml](https://tmblr.co/mxM3LAOZImy4WEFvzRh27tw) for finding the bits of this that did not make any sense and for just being a doll.

**Loss (Modern AU)**  
**Words**

**June 2017**

Jamie had been living in a kind of silent fury that made his fuse short and his attitude towards me shorter.  

The entire week was infected by it.

It started on Monday when he got home from work.  I knew that he had a huge project at work and could tell from the tension he was holding that he was frustrated.  As he reheated leftovers I slipped my arms around his waist and asked if there was anything I could do to help. He slid free of my embrace and slammed the microwave shut.  

“Big project, dinna fash yerself over it.”  It was more words than he had said to me since walking in the door.

That night was the first time he had ever turned down sex when I was the one to initiate.  

“It’s no’ you…” he said, arching his hips away from my touch. It was like my hands were made of hot coals. “I… I’ve had a day… and need to get some sleep.”

Swallowing and trying to avoid an outward show of offense, I nodded and leaned into his mouth. His lips were still. Scooting closer and trying to curl myself against his chest, he moved to the edge of the bed.  It stung and I slept facing away from him, holding my pillow.

In the morning he was gone before I woke – the shower curtain still damp, his wet footprints on the bathmat, coffee hot in the kitchen, and toast crumbs littering the counter.

On Tuesday, Jamie called at 11:00 p.m. to let me know that he would be late.  I ground my teeth, trying to stop myself from saying “ _you’re already late, Jamie_.”  His project was teaching me that he had the patience of a saint for putting up with my inability to keep a schedule, my late nights, and habitual failure to call or text.

Along with the clock, I watched late-night talk shows and infomercials before settling into bed shortly after two in the morning.  When he slipped into bed sometime before dawn, I barely woke. I was on my belly and his hand came to rest on my lower back with a sighed “ _I love ye, Claire_.” I relished the touch, his presence. I fell back asleep before I could respond.  

I woke again to an empty flat.

On Wednesday, Jamie texted that he would be home for dinner.

True to his word, he showed up and ate. And that was about it – his eyes were fixed on his laptop and he offered only one-word answers to my questions about his day.  I went to bed alone and woke to a cold bed in the middle of the night.  Unable to fall back asleep, I padded down the hall in one of his t-shirts and bare feet.

“Did the music wake ye?” he asked, attention not straying from the storyboard on the tabletop.

“No.  You not being in bed woke me.”  I felt needy, but I just wanted to see him and to hear him say more than ten words at the same time. “Can you look at me for just a second?”

“ _What_?” he asked, his tone on the border between impatience and concern.  His eyes caught mine just long enough to make sure that I was physically okay.  He raised his eyebrows and looked back down at his work.

“I’m just worried about you is all. Don’t you think you should get some sleep?”

At this, he dropped his pen on a stack of papers and leaned back in the chair, hands carding into his hair.  When he tipped his head back his joints made a disquieting crunch.  He had been hunched over the table for way too long.

“Aye... of course, but this campaign isna goin’ to write itself.”  He was trying to make partner and the stress of it was etching lines along his eyes and forehead.

“You’re just… distant is all. I am _worried._ ”

“That’s rich. Because I’ll tell ye, Claire… I let ye show up here in all kinds of moods and in all states, bleary-eyed and no’ able to keep yer focus on anything. I dinna say a word.”

“You’re right." I could feel my cheeks heating, the slight pull of annoyance in the muscles along my jawline, my heart’s escalating thrum in my chest.  “I don’t need you to tell me that I come home from work tired. You’re the bigger person.   _Congratulations._ ”  My response was clipped when I meant it as an affirmative statement of support. 

“So what would ye have me do here?”  His tone shifted – softening, lowering.  “This isna permanent; I just need ye to understand. Put up with me a little because I’ll no’ be able to manage this–”

he paused, pointing down at the storyboard on the table –

“and–”

he pointed at his chest and then to me and back to himself –

“ ** _this_** at the same time.”

On Thursday, he stayed at his office until dawn.  I had not seen him since our mid-evening argument. I was in the shower when he came in and he joined me wordlessly, his hands reverent on my body. I washed away the night’s sleep and he washed off away night’s work. I touched the slight hollow around his cheekbones and kissed the purple bruises of sleeplessness around his blue eyes.  I whispered “ _I love you_ ” and settled down next to him while he took a nap, damp from the shower and breathing evenly.  I left for work while he slumbered with an arm thrown over his eyes.

On Friday, when I returned from work he had taken up residence at our dining room table.  Storyboards, magazine clippings, notepads, pens, markers, glue sticks, and scissors were scattered over the surface.  

I came to him from behind, making just enough noise not so I would not startle him.  I wrapped my arms around his chest and rested my chin on his shoulder.

“Hi, boyfriend.”  A squeeze.  A sigh. A week at work going dark behind closing eyes.   _Home_.

“Hi, girlfriend.” Soft words. A shift in our dynamic.  Warm lips pressed into my forearm.

“Why the dining room when you have that big, beautiful office?” I asked, quietly inhaling the clean scent of his hair. He tilted his head so his stubbled cheek rested against my jawline.

“Because I can see ye comin’ and goin’ here – watch ye get a glass of water, hear ye in our room. I ken ye think I’m cross wit’ ye, but I’ve just got some…”  His voice trailed off and he sighed, bringing a hand to the side of my face.

“Writer’s block?” I offered. My characterization earned a hollow laugh and he curved his palm along my cheek.

“Aye, writer’s block.  Monday at noon is go time. I’ll either be _done_ or I’ll no’ have a job come Monday afternoon.”

I turned my face just slightly to bring my lips to his palm. “You’re brilliant, and I have every confidence that your shitty attitude towards me this week will pay off in spades.”

“Weel, that’s _exactly_ the vote of confidence I’ve been looking for.” This time his laugh was real, not forced or laced with the tenor of frustration, but I could feel the tension radiating out of his chest. “What d’ya say ‘bout me taking a break and we can pop over to Carol’s for some sandwiches?”

I sighed, my hands stilling their descent down his chest. “Geillis’ birthday party is tonight.”

“ _Ifrinn_ ,” he grumbled, gently pushing my hands away. “I forgot.”

“I told her not to expect you, but I need to put in an appearance. I can come home early.”

He shook his head, tilting his head back to look at me.  “Go have fun.  I’m not great company right now.”

I snorted as if to say “ _you don’t need to tell me that._ ” My eyes were closed, but I would have put money on him rolling his eyes. 

“Tell her that I’m sorry?”

I relocated my hands to his cheeks, tilting his face up to mine. I just barely brushed my lips over the bridge of his nose and his cupid’s bow before moving to hover just over his mouth. “I’ve already told her.”

His lips were upside down under mine, but I felt him smile and swallowed his “ _thank you_.”

Geillis’ birthday party was exactly how I had expected it would be: mad with a barrel of tequila.  

After my taxi dropped me at the front of our flat, I stumbled up the stairs tugging my dress down along the neckline and up at the bottom. Jamie was sitting in the same spot where I had left him. He had one hand behind his head and the other fluttering against his thigh in an unpredictable rhythm.

“My love!” I announced, dropping my handbag to the floor. I ignored the lipstick and mints that rolled out and took off across the landing into the dining room.  He spared me only a momentary glance before doing a double take.

“Were you no’ wearing more clothes when ye left?” he asked, one eyebrow raised, his fingers still tapping away.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Fraser,” I laughed, slipping into the chair at the opposite end of the table from him.  “I was wearing a jacket.  I don’t know where it wandered off to though.”

“How drunk are you?”

“Oh, Jamie… I can’t even _begin_ to explain to you how much I’ve had to drink.” I set a small pink paper box down on the table and carefully set about untying the white ribbon that held it closed. When I glanced up I could tell that he was trying not to smile despite himself.  “Look. It’s tiramisu.”

“I can see that,” he said, dropping his pen to the table. “Did you bring enough to share?”

I shrugged, noncommittal with my hand at the neckline of my dress.  “It depends…. Are ye still working?”

“Yes, still working, and I ken ye’ve had a lot of drink tonight, but–”

He looked me up and down, a presence and interest in his eyes that I had not seen since the previous weekend.

“–can ye quit fiddling with yer dress? Ye’re distracting me.”

“Oh, this old thing?” I asked, using a finger to pull the neckline down below the scalloped edge of my bra.

“Aye… that old thing,” he responded evenly, eyes darkening as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table.  His eyes were intent on me and he did not even attempt to hide his interest.  

I felt the tequila course through my veins.  I smiled at the sensation – power, abandon, a flush of anticipation, desire. My inhibitions had been scattered as I walked up the stairs to our flat. I gave up on the neckline of my dress to dip my finger into the cinnamon cream. It was obnoxious, but I made a real meal of bringing it up to my mouth with a wink.  

“Distracting you from what?” I asked innocently.

“Fulfilling my manly duties – making money to afford our lifestyle.”

“Ah, you forget, _Mr. Fraser_ , that I am an _in-de-pen-dent wo-man_ … a _doc-tor_. I don’t need your money.”  He snorted, his thumb swiping absently over his lower lip.  I dipped my finger into the cream again.  “How’s the writer’s block?”

“Hmmm… blocky.”  

I made a show of sucking the cream from my fingertip and he looked down at the notepad that was balanced on his lap, the thought of work momentarily disrupting the playfulness on his face. “Whatcha hiding under there?”

He smirked. “What d’ya want to hear? Evidence of my ravenous desire for ye?”

I just shrugged noncommittally, continuing to suck at my fingertip even though the cream was long gone.

“I canna think of the right turn of phrase, and ye’ve gone absolutely shameless on me. Now I canna think _at all_.”

I stood, reaching for the bottle midway between us. Unable to reach it, I popped one knee up onto the table to get some leverage and leaned forward.  I pressed my elbows together so my breasts would have their maximum advantage over him.  

My efforts earned a laugh and he commented, “Ye look like a White Snake video.”

Ignoring the observation, bottle finally in hand, I unscrewed the cap to give the whisky a sniff.  “Hmmm… smells like fruit and… autumn at the shore.”  

I narrowed my eyes and took a healthy pull, grimacing a little at the burn.  The flavor grew and faded at the back of my throat, warming my chest.  

“And it tastes like–”

“Madeira wine–”

“–excuse me, Mr. Fraser… I was not finished.”

Jamie held up his hands, absolutely _grinning_ at this point.  “My apologies.  Proceed, Doctor.”

“It tastes like berries in the autumn and… madeira wine… and… a little bit of sea salt.”

“Sea salt, huh?” His eyebrows pinched together and I nodded, standing.  

“I have a bone to pick with you James Fraser.”

He was looking down at the notepad, his fingers still at war with this thigh.

“Tell me more about the berries…” he said absently, circling something on the notepad with his pen.

“Autumn berries… a burst of tartness.  The kind of berries that make your cheeks ache.  Acidic.  Smoky… like… I don’t know… bonfire.”  I was near enough to feel his warmth but he was focused on his notepad.  I took it from his fingers and dropped it to the floor. Before he could object, I pressed my mouth over his, my fingers working at the hem of my dress.  “You turned me down earlier this week.  Are you going to turn me down again tonight?”

I moved to straddle him and his hands came to my hips, working my dress up only slightly. “Ye dinna ken how much it killed me to do that, Sassenach.”

I laced one arm around his neck and took his hand in mine.  I led it between my legs and sighed – a breathy whimper of a thing.

“You didn’t seem too upset at the time, but I know you’ve been busy.” My words were a purr – low, slow, suspended between flirtation and being a touch too drunk to speak without slurring.  I pressed my hips down into his hand and arched forward, seeking friction, which he lazily provided through my knickers.

“Keep telling me about the whisky and how it tasted… ye’ve made some fascinating observations.”  

“Taste it for yourself,” I murmured, my lips claiming his and my tongue pressing the flavor of the whisky into his tongue.  He groaned into my mouth and I felt him work my knickers over to the side. I pulled back from our kiss.  “And what’s the verdict?”

“Ye taste of tequila and tiramisu and whisky.  In that order.”

I pressed against his hand and brought my tongue to his ear. “Are you going to work at this table all night?”

“I dinna ken what the alternative is, Sassenach.”

“Hmmm, maybe I need to be more direct.” A shift in my tone, a quiet noise from him, and then the tequila made me bold: “Are you going to make me take care of myself tonight?”

“Oh Jesus Christ, Claire,” he groaned, looking me up and down before shaking his head.  “I _need_ to work.”

He did not sound fully convinced and slipped his hand out from between my legs. Refocused, reaching for the notepad on the floor, he carefully steadied my hips so I did not tumble off of his lap.

“Tell me more about the sea salt.”

“Well, it’s like when you’ve been in the sea and I kiss you–”

“Aye?”

“–here–”

my voice faded to a whisper and I pressed my lips at his temple, and continued –

“–here–”

the right corner of his mouth –

“–here–”

the juncture of the hard line of his jaw and the soft surface below his earlobe –

“–here–”

Jamie’s hands caught my face and he turned so his mouth was against mine, his tongue exploratory and sloppy.  I felt the growl rise in his chest before it came out of his mouth and into mine.  

I pulled back slightly, knowing my eyes were hooded and my lips were swollen.  

“Leave your stupid beachy whisky and come see what tequila does to your girlfriend.”

Jamie’s hands guided me until I was sitting on the table. “Claire… I canna…”

Frustrated, I slipped off of his lap and pulled my dress down from my waist and smoothed it over my thighs _._ Tiramisu in hand, I turned to walk down the hallway to the master bedroom, tossing a sharp “ _fine_ ” over my shoulder. 

I set my dessert, indented and melting from my fingers, on the dresser and retreated into our bathroom. If he was going to turn me down again, I was going to wash my face, eat my tiramisu, and call it a night.  I toed off my shoes and started to scrub the haze of bronzer that Geillis had smeared onto me off of my décolleté. 

I did not realize that he was in the doorway, apparently just watching, until he said, “Do ye remember what I said about this dress on our first date?”

I watched him in the bathroom mirror, taking in his easy posture and slight smile.  I knew good and god damned well what he had said about the dress on our first date, but I shook my head. I wanted to hear him say it again.

“I was no’ sure whether to unzip it and let it fall off of your body or to pull it up over your head.”

“You’ve still never taken it off of me.”  The breath that came out of him sounded ancient, tortured.

“That’s fixable.”  He was at my side with a long step, guiding the zipper down to my hip before I could focus. It took a single brush of his fingertips over the thin straps for the entire thing to fall, pooling at my feet. “Aye… just as I thought’d happen…”

My breath hitched when his right hand touched my throat and then moved down – over collarbones, between my breasts, resting on my stomach.

“Ye’ve no’ got much to say now that I’m givin’ ye what ye’ve been after.”  His tone was joking but his eyes were dark. I could tell he needed this – _connection_ – as much as I did – _affection_. His hand gave me a little push as he said, “Get up on the counter.”

With the urging of his hands, I made my way up onto the bathroom counter, my chest heaving and mind racing.  He drenched a cotton pad with makeup remover and intently looked at my face.

“Ye look stunning all made up, but ye’re so bonnie all bare.” He swiped the cotton pad across my forehead, down my temple, and over my jaw. “Ye dinna need all of this.”

“Hmmm… my short, stubby eyelashes disagree,” I mumbled, fighting the urge to smooth the crease between his eyebrows away with my thumb.  He saturated another cotton pad and worked it over the bridge of my nose.  

“It’s like ye’ve been painted,” he marveled, looking down at the second soiled square. “Geillis add some extra sparkle?” Nodding, I smirked. He planted a small kiss at the right corner of my lips.  My breath hitched.  I reached forward and pulled him closer by the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Close yer eyes,” he whispered, hips settled between my knees.

I did as he asked, winding my legs around him.  I slipped my fingers under his shirt and ghosted my hand over the wiry hairs on his belly, over the curve of his hip.  He worked the cotton pad over each eye before moving his fingers to the braid circling my hairline.

“I have no’ even the foggiest idea on how to _try_ to get yer hair down,” he laughed, fingers sinking into the braid and attempting to pull it free.

I opened my eyes and gently moved his hands from the braid.  I watched his face as I worked at unweaving my hair, excavating bobby pins and eventually shaking it loose over my shoulders.

“Aye, there ye are again.”

Fingers no longer occupied, I worked his shirt up over his head before silently unhooking my bra and shrugging it onto the bathroom floor.

He lifted me like it was nothing and maneuvered us to the bed, laying me on my back. We make quick work of our remaining clothing and he stretched out across me – hard muscle fitting against the soft swell of my breasts and thighs.  

He looked tired but the desire in the set of his lips against mine, the fire of his eyes, was enough to make my world tilt.  He tasted like that damn beachy whisky and smelled like the man I loved to wake up next to every morning. He made a soft groan, low in his throat.  His skin was warm, smooth, a comfort.  My five senses were enough to make my breath tangle in my throat and my heart to stop beating for a minute.

His fingers reached the sides of my neck, just resting there, warming my skin with electricity – like he wanted nothing else in life than me, than _us_.  

Our shadows crushed together when he slipped inside of me, his tongue gently dragging along my lower lip.  We were not dwelling in our week of stilted conversation and work stress. He was just kissing me and I was just kissing him, like it was our first time and our last time and our best time.

“Oh… Jamie…” I cried out, any words to describe the feeling lost in my throat.  He slowed, slipping his arms around me and hugging my whole body to him. With an arm around my shoulders and the other around my lower back, he pressed us impossibly closer together and I rose into him.  “ _I needed you_.”

My words were not just the a mere surplus of a close moment.  I did need him. I needed him to make love to me like nothing was between us – no words, no deadlines.  Our bodies slipped against one another – slick and warm. For a moment I wondered if I had ever been _this close_ to another human being. 

“Claire… oh…”  His words were apparently missing right along with my own.

Fused to him, I could feel and smell and taste everything. The humidity in the muggy summer air, the tang and brine of the sweat on his skin, the pavement settling now that the sun had gone down, the cologne I had purchased for him lingering at the nape of his neck, the bright citrus of the shampoo we shared, the goosebumps rising on both of our arms.

The end snuck up on us both – my mouth falling open in a silent scream partway through a slow-burn kiss.  I stilled against him and split in half, accepting his groan ( _my name_ ) into my mouth with white light bursting, popping, sizzling behind my eyelids.

I gripped his shoulders, blinking as he stilled inside of me and fell forward, heavy on my chest and pressing me down into the mattress. I sighed into the sweaty curve where his neck met his shoulder, on high alert and every nerve buzzing.  

“Loosen your hold, Sassenach,” he finally groaned, lifting off of me and running a sweaty palm over my cheek. “Ye’re goin’ to give me bruises.”

My fingers relaxed.  Pink spots bloomed, dark and deep, on his flesh where my fingers had been.  Every part of my body was heavy, almost aching with fatigue.  He rolled off of me and onto his side.  After a moment, he carefully turned me until I was facing him. His fingertips ran a trail from my shoulder, over my arm, down my fingers, onto my thigh over and over again until my breath was deepening and my eyelids were heavy under the weight of exhaustion and alcohol.

“Sassenach?”

“Mmmmph?” I intoned as a response, my lips useless.

“It’s a beachy whisky. I think ye’ve helped me through my writer’s block.” His firm, sure fingers tucked hair behind my ear. “And I’m goin’ to eat yer tiramisu.”

I said (or at least dreamed that I said): “ _fine_.”

The last thing I heard was a quiet whisper: “ _buidheachas_ _mo ghraidh_.”

I whispered, “You’re welcome.”


End file.
